Oh, Brother

Like with the rest of my family members, my brother and I have gone through varying levels of love and hate with each other. Up until our double digits, he and I were BFF - mainly because we were only a year apart and didn't have a lot of other choices. I'd like to think that he had a certain reverence for me, being his big sister and all, but it was all probably because if he didn't play with me, he didn't play at all. So all the games were my choosing: we wrapped ourselves in my parents' bedsheets and played Fashion Show on their big bed, we set up my Barbie kitchen and played, well, Barbie Kitchen. Every now and then we'd play House, Camping, Race Car, and if he was lucky, Nintendo. But I saw that he was quickly getting better than me and at that point I only agreed to play if he let me win; if he didn't, I'd cry and not play again. So, he let me win.

I admit it. I was a crappy big sister.

Then, when the hormones hit, we were total enemies. He soon realized that a one year age difference does not a big-sister-worthy-of-respect make. We'd get into these awful fights where we'd yell and scream at each other until our parents burst in and tore us apart. He once wrote all over my diary, so I ripped up his swimming certificates in retaliation. We'd hit, punch and kick. Another time, we beat each other with our mini pool sticks until they both snapped in half. This was all before we finished elementary school.

Thank goodness we went to different high schools. I was in the gifted program, worked on the yearbook, joined band and every club imaginable. He did poorly in school, got into fights, went to raves and hot-boxed in my bathroom.

I suppose I started to love him again - in a different, more mature way - when I left home to go to university. It also helped that during that time he grew up and did a little maturing of his own. Nowadays, he's the one I go to when I have questions about things I don't understand. We ask each other's advice before making important decisions. He meets my boyfriends before my parents do. I find the most joy in picking out his birthday and Christmas presents. He spent an hour showing me his new cell phone and shows me new games that he knows I would love on his Nintendo DS. He's my emergency contact when I fill out forms. He knocked on my door when he realized I had slept in on my first day of work (and then drove me to the subway station to save me time). He was the first person I called when I lost control of the car this morning and smashed into a snowbank.

After dinner tonight, I spent about an hour perfecting a giant bowl of guacamole for my potluck lunch at work tomorrow. When I was done, I set up a platter with a little bowl in the middle with guac, and I meticulously spread out a handful of our favourite Triscuits (black pepper & olive oil) around it for dipping. I excitedly went upstairs and knocked on his door. In all honesty, I could not wait for him to try my famous guacamole. I knew he would love it. I wanted him to see the special platter I made.

"Yeah?"
"Can I come in?"
"Well, what is it?"
"I just finished making my guacamole and I have some here for you."
"Can we come down and get it later?"
"Oh, okay. Yeah, sure, I'll just put it on the counter. Just come down ...quick. Before it goes brown."
"Okay, thanks."

My heart sank. He didn't want my guac. He was probably making out with his girlfriend. Sigh. Oh, brother.
10:04 pm